It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  “I am fascinated to hear this.” Abby tried to sound disdainful, but ended up sounding only bewildered. Perhaps men truly did treat widows differently, or this man did. Academics were permitted a few crotchets along with their studious natures.

  “I’ll send you a maid, and by the time you’ve had your bath and joined me for luncheon, your things should be here and need putting away. Mrs. Turnbull will present herself to offer the staff’s welcome and inquire as to your specific needs and preferences. The more of those you have, the more delighted she’ll be. A list would be well advised.”

  “You have matters well in hand, Mr. Belmont.” Not exactly astounding. Most successful kidnappers probably had some notion of planning.

  “I’ve lived in close proximity to an adult female. Ladies like to know where their effects are, and to arrange them just so, regularly.”

  Now he did sound smug, and climbing a second set of stairs had left Abby winded.

  She braced herself on the newel post, a carved tulip of all things. “You have lived in close proximity to precisely one adult female that I know of. Do not, pray do not, think that makes you an expert on the gender or on me, any more than living with Gregory made me an expert on you or on the male gender in its benighted entirety.”

  Rather than stand nattering in the corridor another minute—or succumb to the slight vertigo plaguing her—Abby swept past Mr. Belmont, passed through the only door ajar, and closed it firmly in her wake.

  “So how does this work?” Mrs. Stoneleigh let Axel seat her at luncheon and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Her somewhat ample chest, for all her slender proportions.

  “How does what work?” Axel lifted the lid from a serving tray and passed her a bowl of vegetable soup, followed by hot rolls and butter.

  She ignored the food, while Axel tried to ignore the hint of color in her cheeks—delicate pink, reminiscent of campions in spring.

  “How does this business of being your prisoner work? Particularly when I am in mourning.”

  Oh, that. She was back in her green velvet riding habit, which, thanks to her negligent staff, had yet to be cast into the dye vat of eternal woe.

  “My staff can dye your frocks for you. As for the rest, please do not leave this house without letting me know your exact destination, and do not leave the property without my escort, or an escort approved by me.”

  She snapped her serviette across her lap. “My presence will be disruptive for you. I inspect my acres regularly, meet with Mrs. Jensen, and so forth.”

  Disruptive was an understatement, but Axel had settled on this course when confronted with the notion that Mrs. Stoneleigh’s decline might be because she feared becoming the murderer’s next victim.

  Which thought had stopped all progress on his herbal, and damned near resulted in a nasty slice to his right index finger at the grafting table.

  “I can accompany you on those errands, Mrs. Stoneleigh, or send somebody along.”

  “You will find my routine surpassingly tedious.” Either that thought, or the aroma of the soup steaming before her pleased her.

  Who would have guessed she had such a beguiling, mischievous smile?

  “Please do eat, madam. I cannot start on my soup until you at least make a pretense of consuming yours.”

  “Somebody pounded manners into you,” she said, taking a dainty spoonful of broth. “For all you kidnap your neighbors.”

  She put her spoon right back down, so Axel buttered a roll—liberally—and passed it to her.

  “Madam will note that I’m on my best behavior. This is my first kidnapping, you see.”

  No smile, but she did tear off a corner of her roll. “In truth, I am not very social, and Gregory preferred a retiring life. I love to read though. I’ll probably become eccentric.”

  “Eat your soup, Abigail.” But for his children, Axel would have blundered past eccentric long ago. He was comforted by the knowledge that Matthew might have succumbed to the same fate, but had also been saved by the necessity of raising Axel’s nephews.

  “Now there,” Axel’s guest said, “you have again made a decision affecting me without consulting me. I do not appreciate it, Axel.”

  The daft woman thought his name on her lips would serve as a scold. “My apologies, but you are a guest in my home, and I am the king’s appointed kidnapper in this shire, so I ask you for the privilege of informal address when sharing an informal meal.”

  “My own husband usually referred to me as Mrs. Stoneleigh, but then, Gregory was old-fashioned,” she replied, dipping a corner of her roll in her soup and nibbling at it. “When you and I are private, I see no harm in informal address, but you should have asked.”

  She was right of course, and she was also eating.

  “I beg your pardon.” Axel would probably be doing that a fair amount, unless he discovered she’d conspired in her husband’s death.

  Which, increasingly, he hoped he would not be doing.

  “You are attached to the university, are you not?”

  Not small talk, but rather, an interrogation. Mrs. Stoneleigh’s kidnapping—or the prospect of refuge from her own home—had apparently improved her spirits.

  “I do most of my teaching in the autumn. Plant physiology, morphology, and reproductive anatomy. With my next publication, and some generous donations in the right pockets, I hope to become a fellow. The sex life of the flower is surprisingly worthy of study.”

  Mrs. Stoneleigh’s spoon clattered to her half-empty bowl, which she set aside. Axel had lost the habit of allowing servants to hover at his elbow at the midday meal, fortunately for the lady’s composure.

  “Further, unending apologies.” Axel set his empty bowl aside too, though he could have done with seconds. “One loses the knack of social discourse when adolescent boys are the most frequent companions at mealtimes.”

  “And do you educate them regarding the reproductive life of the flower at table, Professor?”

  “Occasionally. One doesn’t want to waste an opportunity when the boys are sitting still.” Axel lifted the lid from the ham, which sat at his right over a chafing dish. “May I offer you some ham?” He carved off a thick slice—enough to occupy Dayton for three consecutive minutes—and tipped it onto the lady’s plate.

  “Is this your idea of luncheon, or are you going to an effort on my behalf?”

  The good daily silver was on the table, suggesting the staff had gone to an effort. Mrs. Turnbull and Cook were thick as thieves when it came to the household’s pride.

  “I eat well, and I eat a lot. Matthew is the same, but the true gourmand in the family is Christopher. He’s on the rowing squad, recently turned eighteen, still growing, and never still for long.”

  Axel heaped potatoes and peas on his guest’s plate, which still left plenty for him. “No apples, please.”

  He paused, the serving spoon poised above the apples. “You don’t care for them?”

  “I like them well enough.”

  “But you don’t like them to touch the other food, because they are sweet, and the rest of your plate is not.”

  She was almost-smiling again. “Something like that.”

  “What are you thinking?” Axel asked, starting on his own slice of ham.

  She speared a microscopic bite of pork. “Gervaise reminds me of you.”

  “He is a well-favored, successful, and reasonable man. I will choose to be flattered, despite dear Gervaise’s choice of profession.”

  Mrs. Stoneleigh’s nibble of potatoes could best be described as minuscule. “He’s also ruthless, and practical to a fault.”

  “A barrister cannot afford to be sentimental, but do I understand you account me ruthless?”

  The peas she merely pushed about with her fork. “You kidnapped me.”

  “I see you enjoy the potatoes,” Axel said. “We add sour cream and a blend of garden spices along with the mandatory full tub of butter.”

  “The food is wonderful, though yes
, you and Gervaise both have the ability to do what must be done. You are not sleepwalking.”

  Matthew’s youngest, Richard, had gone through a sleepwalking and a nightmare phase after his mama’s death.

  “What does that mean?” Axel carved himself a second slice of ham, because he intended to spend the afternoon out of doors. The ham of course needed a complement of potatoes to be properly appreciated.

  “Gregory was asleep,” Mrs. Stoneleigh said, turning the stem of her wine glass. “He would ride out most mornings, unless it was pouring, and come back to join me for breakfast. I would ask how was his ride, and he would tell me his gelding was a little stiff to the right, or one of his hounds ran riot after a hedgehog, and so forth. He could ride right past a collapsed wall on his own property and not see it. His ewes might have gone calling en masse on your tups, and Gregory wouldn’t see that either. He was asleep.”

  “Preoccupied?”

  The lady finally deigned to put three buttery peas on her fork. “Unaware. Maybe he used up all his awareness staying alive in India, and a gentleman of his years was entitled to focus on only his hounds.”

  No, he was not. Axel spooned stewed apples into a fruit bowl. “Try them. Cook enjoys the desserts most of all. Because the boys are away, her genius grows frustrated. My only hope of maintaining her spirits is to regularly threaten to sack her.”

  Mrs. Stoneleigh assayed a spoonful of apples. “Your children must grow to great heights to have room for all the food you stuff into them. These spices are marvelous.”

  Stewed apples, with cinnamon, cloves, and walnuts, were comforting on a cold winter afternoon.

  “My mother had a recipe for muffins that used the same spices,” Axel said. “I associate cinnamon and cloves with rainy days spent in the kitchen stealing batter and playing cards with my brother. Matthew’s preferred fragrance comes close. I think he has it blended in Paris.”

  “You are very close to this brother of yours.”

  And yet, Axel and Matthew lived nearly a hundred miles apart. “Having no other siblings might have that result. When we’re through with our meal, I planned to check on my brood mares, though it’s far from foaling season. Would you care to walk with me?”

  He wasn’t nearly done interrogating her, and—bracing thought—she likely wasn’t done interrogating him either. The apples had disappeared from her bowl posthaste, though.

  “A constitutional would suit,” she said. “Your mares are in your south pasture, if I recall?”

  Dayton and Phillip might not have known that much. “That part of the property has the most reliable water,” Axel said, rising and holding her chair.

  “You could easily put in a cistern and a windmill pump on the western pastures. The breeze is seldom still, and you have better drainage on that side and more shade as well.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.” Neither had Axel’s land steward, who’d been managing rural properties since before the Flood.

  When they reached the back corridor, Axel took her cloak off a peg, settled it around her shoulders, then began to tie the frogs.

  “Axel Belmont.” She had closed her eyes.

  “That is my name. Axel Lysander Horatius Belmont, of all the pretensions.”

  “I am capable of dressing myself.”

  He dropped his hands and stepped back, though her point eluded him.

  “This was a habit with your wife, I take it?” Mrs. Stoneleigh’s gaze was understanding, and resentment blossomed, not at her, not even at her understanding, but at a past that still had the power to ambush the present.

  “A habit, yes.”

  She held out his coat. “A lovely, domestic gesture. Sweet.”

  Ye gods, sweet. What else had she said? That Axel was awake, and close to his brother, which had made him uncomfortable because her observations were accurate and based on very little evidence.

  Abigail Stoneleigh was awake as well, though what had life with the colonel done to such an intelligent, alert spirit? She’d both looked at Axel and seen him. Seen the widower, the papa, and the professor.

  Had she seen the man?

  Axel had long since given up wishing for a woman to focus on him that closely. Far easier to be overwhelmed with raising his sons, delivering his scholarly lectures, running his estate, popping down to Sussex to see his brother. Far more pleasant to unravel the mysteries of the rose, or the wonders of what Americans called witch hazel.

  “You are silent, Mr. Belmont,” Mrs. Stoneleigh said.

  They’d left the snowy garden and were crossing the paddock immediately behind the stable. All without Axel offering a word of conversation.

  “Shall I chatter on about the weather?”

  He dropped her arm to leap across a rill of snowmelt encrusted with ice. He straddled the water and planted his hands on her waist, swung her over it, then grasped one of her gloved hands to pull her up the opposite bank.

  The lady was too slight, and riding habits were not ideal attire for marching about the countryside. He’d wanted her to take some fresh air though, to regain the campion-pink flush to her cheeks.

  “The weather is a dreary topic this time of year,” she said. “I like the quality of your silences, for the most part.”

  “What of Gregory?” Axel asked, keeping Mrs. Stoneleigh’s hand in his, for now they were on a rutted bridle path. “Was he quiet or noisy?”

  “He fretted about his bitches when they were about to whelp, or his mares come May, but when he got to brooding, it was mostly about the past. He was old enough to have lost many friends along the way.”

  “One doesn’t like to think of that aspect of a long life. My parents were barely forty when they died.”

  Where in the perishing, frozen hell had that admission come from?

  Mrs. Stoneleigh squeezed Axel’s hand. “That is young. No wonder you and your brother are close.”

  “Blazing, bedamned perdition.” Axel came to an abrupt stop a dozen yards from the edge of a wide field, where eight shaggy, sway-bellied horses placidly regarded the approaching humans. “It is damned February, and that is a goddamned foal in my field.”

  He’d vaulted the fence and left Mrs. Stoneleigh standing on the snowy lane before he recalled that one didn’t curse in the presence of a lady.

  Well… blast.

  Chapter Five

  “I have correspondence to tend to, and my prison cell has a well-stocked escritoire,” Abby said. “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Belmont.”

  “You are my guest,” he replied, before Abby could reach the stairs. “You have my thanks for your assistance with the foal. Few ladies would have managed as well.”

  Abby started up the stairs at a brisk pace, though the walk across the Belmont fields had renewed her exhaustion. Then too, thanks from Axel Belmont would surely put her to the blush, and her dignity could not bear that insult.

  A marmalade cat leapt up the steps ahead of her and waited on the landing, almost as if the beast knew what an effort mere stairs had become. The cat followed Abby up to her sitting room, a cozy space adjoining her bedroom.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said to the cat, who appropriated a spot on the sofa.

  “That’s Lancelot.”

  Abby jumped half out of her boots at the voice from the bedroom, though it was a female voice.

  “Show yourself, please.”

  “Mr. Belmont says your fire is to be kept blazing,” said a young lady emerging from the other chamber. “A tea tray is on the way with plenty of biscuits. The Belmont menfolk are ever so fond of their biscuits.”

  The maid, a mature, sturdy, red-haired woman rather than girl, was clearly fond of the Belmont menfolk. The porcelain vase she carried held a single red rose, and that she placed on the desk.

  “A tray won’t be necessary.” Finding a seat had become imperative, however. Abby took the chair behind the escritoire, despite proximity to the window making that a cold choice. The rose—a big, gorgeous specimen just shy of full
bloom—would look pretty in any location.

  “Mr. Belmont said you’d refuse a tray, and we’re to ignore you. Lancelot will help you with the cream, the shameless beggar. We’re to serve you cream rather than milk on the professor’s orders.” The maid added wood to the fire—not coal. “Would you be having a nap after your tea, ma’am?”

  God, yes. “I had thought to work on my correspondence.”

  “Mr. Belmont’s mood is never improved by his correspondence, not that he’s a cheery soul to begin with. You might consider getting into your dressing gown, and if you find your eyes growing heavy, you can catch a lie-down at your pleasure.”

  Abby knew well what manner of maid had been dispatched to attend her. If Axel Belmont was the general in command of the entire estate, Mrs. Turnbull was his trusted lieutenant, all smiles and polite suggestions one dared not thwart.

  This maid was his gunnery sergeant, adept at handling both raw recruits and smoking cannon, all while appearing to defer to the commissioned officers.

  “What is your name?”

  “I’m Hennessey, though the footmen call me Carrot, because of my hair. Will you need anything else, ma’am?”

  Abby could get herself out of a riding habit, and her own dressing gown was draped over the privacy screen visible in the bedroom.

  “Nothing, thank you. What time is dinner?”

  “Country hours. Six, more or less, depending on Mr. Belmont’s schedule. He’ll try to be punctual as long as you’re here.”

  Abby yielded to temptation. “He’s not normally punctual?”

  Another maid appeared in the doorway, a large tray in her hands.

  “You may come in,” Abby said. “I’ll ask you to close the door on your way out, lest we lose all the heat from the fire.”

  The second maid set the tray on the escritoire, popped a curtsey and withdrew.

  “Mr. Belmont loses track of time when he’s in his glass houses,” Hennessey said. “And he’ll worry over the new foal, of course, and this magistrate nonsense takes a toll as well.”

  In other words, Abby was not to overtax her host with a pesky, unsolved murder. “I’ll ring should I need anything further, Hennessey.”